


Irresistible

by Ambitious_Rubbish



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-01-24 20:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21344308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambitious_Rubbish/pseuds/Ambitious_Rubbish
Summary: Rule #1 of Adventuring: Never pick a strange amulet up off a dungeon floor and put it on unless you’re ready to deal with the unfathomable weirdness that will most assuredly ensue.It seems the Dovahkiin requires a refresher course.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ysolda
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started several years ago in response to this: https://skyrimkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2397.html?thread=11101#cmt11101

“... come again?”

Aela hovered over her, hands pinning her shoulders, knees straddling her waist, and her grin was... well, the word “wolfish” was somehow both eerily appropriate and yet shockingly inadequate at the same time. “Oh, you certainly will be. Again, and again, and again, if I have anything to say about it.” She licked her lips.

Someone getting tossed onto their back during a sparring match was a common enough sight amongst the Companions of Jorrvaskr. Learning how to fall – and then how to recover from that fall properly – was a skill every warrior needed to master. This, however, was... different from the norm, and people were stopping to stare as a result.

Farkas elbowed his brother in the ribs. “What's going on?”

“Harbinger has an Amulet of Mara around her neck.”

The younger of the two twins raised an eyebrow in surprise. “She's not taken?”

Vilkas chuckled. “Not yet,” he said, putting extra emphasis on the second word, “but it seems like someone's staking a claim.”

The Dunmer warrior Athis rubbed his hands together and cackled as he sipped from a tankard of mead. “And right here in the training yard where we can all watch, too. Ah, Azura, I knew it was going to be a good day when I woke this morning.”

A short distance away, Njada Stonearm sat perched atop an empty storage barrel. She rolled her eyes and groaned. “You're filthy.”

The dark elf's smile never wavered. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Sidra? My Thane?” The woman's voice was just a hair's breadth shy of openly mocking, and she was doing a remarkable job of keeping a straight face, considering the situation. “You have a meeting with the Jarl soon. You may wish to... hurry this along.”

If asked, Sidra Ardin would have been the first to admit that her life had gotten enormously complicated – almost comically so – since she'd left Cyrodiil for the snowy reaches of Skyrim. Yet, as strange – as unusual – as her experiences in the frigid north had been, she'd never had to deal with anything quite like... this.

Stumbling into the middle of a raging civil war, nearly being beheaded by the very same Imperial Legions she'd once so loyally served, then finding out by seemingly complete coincidence that she was the subject of ancient Nord prophecy and possibly the savior of all Tamrielic civilization... all of that paled in comparison to-

“Aela! Hands! Watch your hands!” She made a vain effort to protect her modesty as the Nord woman's hands forged intently up her thighs.

“Don't need to,” Aela purred, grinding her hips suggestively against Sidra's prone form. Both women were fully clothed, and yet, there was a sudden rush of awkward coughing and cleared throats from those gathered around. “Done this enough times to know where everything goes.”

“By the Nine Divines, woman, stop!” Sidra's voice cracked.

The former Harbinger of Ysgramor's Companions, Kodlak Whitemane, had chosen the young Imperial as his successor because despite her recent recruitment into the group, she'd exhibited both ferocity in battle and the level-headed cunning of a true leader. More importantly, she'd shown the ability to switch between the two at need. At the moment, however, none of those qualities was in evidence; all that registered on her face was panic: the sheer, blind panic of an animal being hunted.

And Aela was not nicknamed “The Huntress” for naught.

“Only eight Divines now, if you want to get technical.” The voice of Sidra's constant companion Lydia, had lost its veneer of courtesy and respect, dipping now into full-on effrontery. Her expression had changed to match; she was standing with her arms folded, unable to keep the enormous smirk off her face.

“Do you not see?” Aela continued, her honeyed words dripping with a nefarious poison. “We are destined to be together. You are a true warrior born. I can see it within you: the fire in your eyes, in your heart...” The corner of her mouth curled upwards in an almost feral little smile. “Perhaps in other places as well.”

“She means your loins.”

“Thanks, Lydia. I gathered. Now could you maybe give me a hand here?!” Sidra's voice was tinged with desperation, and her legs kicked uselessly, heels drumming against the ground. Her arms flailed wildly as Aela's fingers began questing for the buttons of her tunic. Pinned underneath the taller, heavier and stronger woman, Sidra let out a sharp, high gasp as the first of her shirt buttons was simply ripped away.

Lydia's grin, meanwhile, was a monument to poorly repressed impertinence. “Mmmm, I don't think so, my Thane. There's...” She cocked her head to the side, dodging, as another button went flying lazily past her cheek. “There's more than enough hands involved here already. I'm staying out of it. In fact, I think I’ll get myself a flagon at the Bannered Mare. Shout if you need anything...”


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah, so the brave and noble adventuress manages to escape the deadly clutches of the beautiful and fierce she-wolf! I'm actually surprised she let you get away.” Lydia chuckled, stabbed a small chunk of venison with her fork and popped it into her mouth.

“ ‘Let’ nothing!” Sidra groused. “I had to fight for my life to get free. And I would’ve won free sooner… if **I’d had some help!**" She reached across the table to yank Lydia’s mug out of her hands, then drained the remaining contents in one savage gulp.

If Lydia found Sidra’s outburst in any way upsetting, she didn’t show it. “You had the situation well under control.”

“I really liked those trousers,” Sidra continued with a sigh. She struggled and failed to keep from pouting. “I'm going to miss them. You're buying me new ones, you know. It's coming out of your stipend.”

Lydia snorted. “You don't pay me, my Thane.”

“I don't?”

“No.”

“Then... then how do you live?”

The other woman laughed and signaled for two more rounds. “In theory, I would be paid from whatever income your lands generated. But you have none, so I've just been embezzling enough to get by from what we kill and pillage. Bandits, Forsworn cultists. The occasional usurious mudcrab. The usual.”

Sidra's frown grew wider. “We don't 'pillage.'”

“Perhaps _you_ don't. I'm a Nord. Pillaging is in my blood.”

That was a difficult statement. Difficult in many ways: difficult to comprehend, certainly difficult to respond to. Sidra blinked. Her brow furrowed in consternation. “No, seriously. What _do_ you do for money? Aside from accosting moneylending mudcrabs, of course.”

“I receive a small allowance from the Whiterun treasury. Authorized by Jarl Balgruuf. What did you think?”

“Well, that’s just it. I’m sorry to say I… never really put much thought into… um… that.” The former Legionnaire stared intently into the fresh mug of ale that had just appeared in front of her. Her cheeks reddened slightly in embarrassment. And how could they not? Someone who normally thought of themselves as fairly observant? Committing such a horrendous oversight? It was almost unforgivable.

For a moment, Lydia was tempted to call out her Thane’s rather glaring omission – not because she was all that particularly troubled by the situation, but simply because she enjoyed making the Imperial squirm. She decided against it, however. Sidra meant well, and any missteps she had made thus far could be attributed to inexperience. Inexperience, and perhaps simply general haplessness. But more importantly, there were far better things to tease her about. Infinitely more _amusing_ things. “Anyway, enough about that. Speaking of Jarl Balgruuf, how did your council with him go?”

“Well enough, I suppose. I had to go home and change before I could meet with him, though.”

At this, Lydia made sure to take a big sip from her mug so she could hide her smile with her hand. She congratulated herself on being diplomatic. “I can't imagine why.”

Sidra couldn’t help but notice the tiny little grin despite her housecarl's paltry efforts to conceal it, and her eyes narrowed as she glared daggers at the other woman. Or rather, she made a valiant attempt to glare – she found she was far too weary to actually put any heat into it.

“If I may ask, though... if you had a chance to return to the house after your... encounter with Aela... why do you look...” Lydia cleared her throat quickly to keep herself from laughing. “... the way you do?”

Sidra groaned and ran her fingers through her already tousled, dark blonde hair. She normally kept it neat and tidy – a habit from her days as a soldier that she had never been able to fully rid herself of. She _had_ allowed it to grow out a touch longer than she’d worn it back in those days, but at times like these, she found herself regretting that decision. Long hair was just so difficult to keep out of one’s eyes, and the constant need to swipe her hand across her face to brush away a stray lock of unruly hair seemed to be far more trouble than it was worth.

The rest of her appearance was little better: rumpled skirts, for one. The unsightly creases in the freshly laundered bodice for another. And perhaps worst of all, much to her chagrin, she noticed that her belt was partly undone. She hurried to remedy the issue before Lydia noticed.

The sudden little twinkle in her friend's eye made it abundantly clear that she had failed.

“I... I ran into some trouble on my way back from Dragonsreach.”

“Of course you did.”

If the laughter hadn't been at her expense, Sidra might've found Lydia's chuckling rather endearing. The Nord had a rather musical laugh, which synchronized well with her playful sense of humor. But seeing how it was directed at her, Sidra couldn’t help but grimace. “Damn it, Lydia. Stop laughing.”

“My... my apologies. I'll try to maintain some decorum.” Lydia took a deep breath and held it. And even as she did so, she schooled her face into something actually approaching neutrality. It seemed to require from her a herculean effort, but eventually, she managed to look as if she wasn’t finding immense and perverse amusement in all the misfortunes that Stendarr had apparently seen fit to heap upon the Imperial. “Who was it this time? Must've been a real terror if you nearly tore your dress in your desperate bid for escape.”

The reply was colder than a stiff breeze blustering through the streets of Windhelm. “That is none of your business.”

There was only one thing – or perhaps one person – who could warrant such a reaction. Lydia grinned knowingly. “Aha. The redhead.”

“What?” Sidra demanded.

“Oh, I think you know the one. Tall. Winsome. Cute. Abnormal interest in mammoth tusks.”

Yet again, the Dragonborn of Nord legend, the fearsome Dohvakiin, bane of oversized lizards across the breadth of Skyrim, was reduced to a sputtering wreck. “I... I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“So if I were to tell you that Ysolda just walked in the door, that wouldn't mean anything to you?”

“She's **here?** Hide me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Are you really trying to tell me that you're afraid of a little slip of a girl like her?

Sidra, incensed by the accusation, sat up straighter in her chair and puffed out her chest. The little twist that came to her lips made her look righteously indignant – and then it all fell apart the instant she noticed the redhead begin to glance in her direction. She ducked, hunching her shoulders and trying to bury her face into the mead-stained wood of the table. “It... it's not that I'm _afraid_ of her, exactly...”

“No, you're merely cowering like a cornered Skeever at the sight of her. Certainly not a sign of fear at all, my Thane.”

“I just never know what to say to her!”

“'Nice shoes, let's go behind the barn?'”

“Lydia!” Now thoroughly scandalized by the turn the conversation had taken, Sidra tried to hide her cheeks, which had turned a very fetching shade of bright pink.

“What? I knew a lad once, a long time ago, used that one on me.”

“Uh huh. And did it work?”

Lydia shrugged amiably. “They were some exceptionally well-crafted shoes.” She drained her tankard, then squinted one eye shut and peered into it as if more ale would magically appear at the bottom. “Bah. Never a tavern wench around when you need one. Excuse me while I go bend Hulda’s ear for a moment.”

The Imperial reached out and seized her wrist. Her fingers clenched tight like a vise, her desperation lending her strength. “Wait!” she hissed. “You can't! What about... you-know-who?”

“Oh, please. You're a grown woman, you can muddle through one conversation on your own. I'll be back shortly.”

“But... but-”

“Just relax,” Lydia said, waving a casual, dismissive hand. “Talk about the weather. Or slaying dragons. Actually, stick to that. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear all your stories about how brave you were, protecting the world from the predations of Alduin and his brood-brothers. She'll be plenty willing to crawl into your breeches after that.”

“But I don't want-”

Lydia arched an eyebrow at her. “Are you going to try and tell me again that you're not interested? How many times have I walked into a room and seen the two of you rutting at each other with your eyes? You're more than free to lie to yourself, my Thane, but you won't have much luck lying to me.”

That tore it. Sidra slammed a fist down on the table in exasperation, causing plates and eating utensils to rattle. A few heads turned towards the source of the noise, including the one she'd most hoped to avoid. She groaned. “For the love of Mara, what have I done?”

Lydia grinned and rose to her feet. She reached across the table and patted the other woman on the shoulder. “You two have a nice chat.”


	4. Chapter 4

As Lydia turned to leave the table, Sidra once again dug her fingernails deep into the skin of the Nord woman's wrist. This time the gesture was more irate than frightened. “I have a question. If something... unfortunate were to happen to you, do you think the Jarl would provide me with a replacement housecarl?”

“Likely not.” The Nord brushed off the veiled threat with a vague and nonchalant shrug. “And I wouldn't be so quick to try and find out. He may just end up assigning Irileth to your service.”

Sidra blanched. “That woman frightens me. I swear, she feeds on the souls of the dead and the screams of anguished children.”

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?” Ysolda had made it to their table by this point. She smiled warmly at the both of them, but it was clear which of the two she was really there to see. The young, aspiring merchant didn't have much in the way of “assets” to flaunt – her height and build left her on the more gangly end of the scale than anything else – but what she did have, she was using devastatingly well.

The warm, charming smile, the lightly pursed lips, the slight flare of her hips and the almost imperceptible arch to her back were just overt enough to be noticed while subtle enough to leave the imagination yearning for more. And Sidra's imagination was certainly... yearning. She gulped. Lydia, meanwhile, gave a little polite nod of the head and took a few graceful steps towards the edge of the conversation. “Oh, no, not at all. I was just on my way to see the bartender about some drinks.”

Ysolda matched the other Nord's easygoing smile and then slid leisurely into the vacated chair. The slender redhead put both of her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers together. “Sidra. So wonderful to see you,” she began, her smile widening as she “demurely” crossed one leg over the other.

She'd gone and exchanged her usual simple day to day wear for something a little finer this evening, and as she lazily slipped her right leg over her left, the slit of her skirt parted just enough to offer up a glimpse of her calf: long and smooth and undeniably lovely.

It was just the barest hint of skin on display, but suddenly Sidra's heart was racing, and she wasn't entirely sure why. Sure, the girl was cute, and... sure, maybe there was something mildly exhilarating about a fresh-faced ingenue harboring a bit of a crush on her, but it was just a bit of leg. A quick flash. How could it have put her so out of sorts? She swallowed, her mouth suddenly bone dry. “Uh... heh... likewise.” She stammered, feeling like a swimmer far from land, trying to keep her head above water even as the current tried with all its might to pull her under. “So... um... how are things?”

The redhead leaned in even closer, this time swiping a playful fingertip against the Imperial’s bare forearm. “Much better now that you're here.”

She tried not to flinch, she really did, but there was something about that touch – like an exceptionally potent burst of raw magicka flaring through her arm, making the tiny hairs across the surface of her skin stand on end. She shivered involuntarily, the tremor racing down from her shoulders, all the way to the tips of her toes. Her hips wriggled uneasily in her seat. “Heh... that's sweet.” She gulped again, felt a bead of sweat begin to stand out on her brow, just barely hidden by the bangs just above her eyes.

“You know, that’s a really lovely amulet.” Ysolda was reaching out now, fingers questing for the delicate chain that kept that amulet tethered around Sidra’s neck. Her fingertips were soft – blessedly soft – as they inadvertently grazed against the Imperial’s collarbone. And then, slowly, they traced their way downwards, to the finely crafted disc that had been carefully inlaid with painstakingly polished gemstones.

“I… I rather like it,” Sidra croaked, barely able to find her voice.

“I don’t blame you. It really accentuates your features.” Ysolda dragged her fingertips lower, tracing a fiery line down bare skin and stopping only when she met fabric. A fingernail, cut short but smooth, tripped against the simple cloth of Sidra's dress, pulling it away from flushed, naked skin for but a fraction of a moment before it lost its hold and the fabric snapped back into place.

“Uh... th-thank you.”

“So I had an idea.”

“Oh?”

“What do you say we go for a walk?”

“ ‘We?’ As in, ‘you and me?’ Walking?” Sidra’s hands were trembling so violently at this point that she felt the need to sit on them just to keep them from upsetting anything on the table.

Ysolda smiled, and it was a smile that was as much devastating as it was bewitching. Sidra’s heart raced, but the Nord continued, seemingly oblivious to the other woman’s difficulties. “Why not? It’s a lovely night out, and I don’t know about you, but it feels a little… stuffy in here. I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to stretch my legs...” And speaking of “legs,” she set her right one down and then crossed her left over it, once again treating the Imperial to a fleeting glimpse of alluringly bare flesh through the slit of her skirt.

This time, Sidra nearly swallowed her tongue. “I... I would love to, but Lydia and I have an early start tomorrow. I've been asked to investigate...” Her voice trailed off and she began muttering incoherently. Only a few words here and there were intelligible. Something about “bandit raids,” or maybe it was “shambling draugr,” or perhaps it was “trolls eating all the cows, Divines why hasn't someone done anything,” but she ended her little explanation by pushing away from the table with both hands and abruptly standing up. “So, y'see, I really should be going... but um... maybe some other time?”

Ysolda's smile faded slightly, but she tried not to let her disappointment show too much. She nodded with as much good grace and poise as she could muster. “Of course. Some other time.”

“Thank you. Um... if you wouldn't mind telling Lydia that I'm heading back to Breezehome for the evening? And that she shouldn't stay out too late? I'd really appreciate it.”

Sidra was out the door without even waiting for a response. Lydia returned just a few moments later, almost as if she'd been hovering just out of earshot but near enough to watch everything that had happened. She plopped a mug down in front of the redhead. “She ran for the hills, huh?”

“Like a startled doe.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sidra was still awake when Lydia came tromping through the front door at a preposterously late hour of the evening. “You! I... I don't believe you! I thought we were friends! Shield-Sisters! You... you _abandoned_ me!”

The Nord held a hand to her temples as if trying to stave off the inevitable headache that was sure to come from all the yelling. “I did no such thing,” she said, trying to interject some desperately needed reasonableness into the conversation. “I merely stood back and laughed at your predicament. There's a difference!”

This time there was actually some sting in the Imperial's glare. “We're leaving for Winterhold in the morning. You'd best get some sleep.”

“Winterhold? What? Why?”

Sidra hissed at her even as she cuffed the intoxicated Nord soundly across the back of the head. “Research!”

\-----

It'd occurred to her a short time after her harried flight from the Bannered Mare that the residents of Whiterun had been acting... odd... lately. Well, she'd already known _that,_ but it wasn't until Ysolda had started fingering the amulet that Sidra wore around her neck that she'd finally made the connection. She'd only started wearing the thing – a bauble she'd picked up in some dungeon somewhere – a little over a week ago, and it had only been about that long since everyone had started acting so strangely towards her.

The amulet _had_ to be the cause of all her newfound troubles. It just had to be. Perhaps the ridiculous thing was cursed. That _would_ just be her luck, wouldn't it? But if it _were_ cursed, there was only one place she could go to make absolutely certain: the College of Winterhold.

Lydia grumbled as she finished loading up the horses for the long trek from Whiterun all the way north to Winterhold. “What kind of research are we doing?” It wasn't that she was really all that interested, but if she was going to be forced to make the long journey in the first place, she might as well know why.

“Mind-altering spells and the like.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow at that. “... why?”

“Because I _said so,_ that's why.”

There was no point arguing with such a blunt, heavy-handed response. And given the Imperial’s tone, there seemed to be little point trying to talk to her about anything else, either.

They spent pretty much the entire trip to Winterhold in silence.

\-----

“Well, Bree?”

“It's not cursed. Not that I can tell, at any rate. I was only able to detect a small enchantment on it – very minor magic. What you're describing shouldn't be happening... um... at least, the magic on the amulet can't be causing it, anyway. But... maybe you should take this to... you know... a 'real mage,' just to be sure.”

Sidra winced. “I'm sorry about that 'not a real mage,' comment. I was angry.”

“I know. And you had a right to be.”

Lydia perked up at what sounded like a prelude to juicy gossip, but when neither Sidra nor the dark elf she was speaking to seemed like they were going to elaborate, she went back to sullenly skulking at the edges of the conversation.

“Look, I know enchantments aren't really your thing, but you know more about them than I do, and-”

“Hold on... oh.”

“What?”

“It's an Amulet of Mara,” Brelyna muttered, turning the little trinket over in her hands and leaning in so she could get a closer look. “Do you see the little design on the filigree, here?”

“I did. Is that important? Is there some kind of enchantment buried in the etching?”

It wasn't easy for Dunmer to blush. The color of their skin largely precluded it. But Brelyna was blushing. Somehow. Miraculously. “No... Sidra, you don't understand.” She paused. Blinked. Took a moment or two to sort through her thoughts, and then things clicked into place and her gaze swept over to Lydia still leaning casually against a nearby stone column, arms folded over her chest. “You never told her, did you?”

Sidra whirled on her housecarl, her expression now just a shade shy of frantic. “Told me what? Told me what?!”

The elf took a slow, cleansing breath. “As I understand it, it's a very old Nord custom. If you're wearing one of these around your neck, it basically means you're looking to... er...”

“Spit it _out,_ Bree."

“I'm trying to find a way to put this _tactfully!_” The Dunmer shrugged helplessly before making a little circle with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. Then, she slipped the tip of her right index finger through the circle.

And started thrusting vigorously.

“WHAT?!”

Lydia had done a thoroughly impressive job of maintaining a stoic expression throughout the entire conversation, but now it collapsed like an avalanche of snow cascading down the side of a mountain. She laughed so hard she had to clutch at her ribs to keep from hurting herself, and she came dangerously close to knocking some fragile magical contraption off its pedestal.

“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”


	6. Chapter 6

Lydia’s coughing fit had been so violent that she’d nearly lost consciousness. As it was, she’d made herself lightheaded from lack of air and had “temporarily lost her footing” - she steadfastly refused to admit she’d “swooned,” or “fainted” or anything of that nature – and had had to be carried to a nearby chair to recover.

Even now Sidra was nursing a sore shoulder, having nearly pulled a muscle (or seven) dragging her nearly insensate housecarl to safety. Brelyna had rushed to the alchemical laboratory, retrieved some smelling salts and quickly brought the Nord woman around.

Which left the three of them having a very awkward conversation in one of the small anterooms tucked away to the side of the main chamber in the College of Winterhold’s Hall of Attainment.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about… well… about everything.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t know there was anything to ask about. It looked just like any other bauble.”

“I hate to say it, but it’s kind of your own fault, Sidra. You know, for picking up and wearing random bits of jewelry you come across in your travels?”

“Listen to the Dunmer. She’s speaking sense.”

Sidra grimaced. “Fine, fine. No more random dungeon amulets.” She sighed. “Well, now that I know what the problem is, I suppose I should take this off.”

Brelyna frowned. “Awww.”

“ ‘Awwww?’” Sidra’s eyes widened. “What, you’re not… I mean… you don’t want to-”

The Dunmer stuck her tongue out and shook her head violently as if she’d just bitten deep into an apple and found it completely rotten. “No! I don’t… that is… I _don’t…_ um… with women. And besides, it’s hard to think of someone that way after you’ve accidentally turned them into a cow.”

Lydia jerked and nearly fell out of her chair. “Excuse me, what?”

“I thought we agreed to NEVER. Speak of that again.”

Brelyna winced. “… oops.”

Lydia burst into a fit of giggles. “Why does all the best stuff happen when I don’t have a drink in my hand?”

\-----

The trek back to Whiterun was just as quiet as the trek from it had been. That, in and of itself wasn’t all that unusual – Sidra was, after all, not really the chatty type. But this was more than that. It was as if a noticeable… chill had settled over her these past few days.

In all fairness, Lydia was rather certain she knew the cause. And honestly, she probably really did have no one to blame but herself. She’d taken advantage of the Imperial’s naivete. She could simply have explained what wearing that amulet meant to the common Skyrim citizen, and all of this insanity could have been prevented. Sidra had every right to be cross with her. And while the entire debacle had been good for quite a few laughs, Lydia was beginning to think she should attempt to find some way to make up for what she’d done.

As they neared the city gates, she brought her mount to a halt across Sidra’s path. The Imperial made to detour around her, but Lydia didn’t give her the chance. She spoke, breaking the chilly silence that had settled between them. “You should talk to her.”

Sidra glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. Her initial intention was to simply ignore Lydia’s suggestion – act as if she hadn’t even heard the other woman speak. But she couldn’t help herself from letting loose an irritated rejoinder. “Are you trying to be helpful, now? Is this your idea of ‘helpful?’”

Lydia sighed. “How many times do you want me to apologize? Yes, I… I should have told you that all those people were flirting so blatantly with you because of the amulet. I admit that I used your… unusual situation for my own amusement, and that was thoughtless of me. I _am_ sorry. But let’s speak plainly, here: it seems completely obvious to me that this business with Ysolda would be happening even without the amulet. Perhaps not as… brazenly, but even so...”

A pained grimace formed on Sidra’s lips. In her estimation, Lydia was… well, she wasn’t wrong. Ysolda’s advances had indeed been quite… determined, and while the bulk of their encounters could probably be explained away as a grave misunderstanding, this business with the amulet likely couldn’t account for everything. Damn it all. Sidra exhaled raggedly and ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. “It doesn’t matter. I still don’t have the slightest idea what to say to her.”

“I don’t understand why you’re obsessing so. You can carry on a conversation perfectly well with me, so why not her?”

“Because it’s not the same thing, and I think you know that.”

“With respect, you’re talking nonsense. Stendarr’s Mercy, this really doesn’t have to be difficult: she fancies you, you fancy her. Just say so.”

“Ah, yes. A simple plan from a simple mind.” She grumbled. “You Nords and your perpetual bluntness-”

“It works, doesn’t it? All this dancing around the subject that seems so common everywhere else? What does it accomplish but wasting everyone’s time? Look, if you are so convinced that you can’t have a regular conversation with her like regular people do, well, ask her to meet you for drinks this evening. I know for a fact that you become far more eloquent when you’re drunk.”

That statement earned a roll of the eyes from the former Legionnaire. “Seeing as how every time I’ve been drunk, you’ve been even drunker, I’m not sure I can trust your appraisal of my conversational abilities.”


	7. Chapter 7

It went against her better judgment to actually take Lydia’s advice, but Sidra had to be honest with herself: she could think of nothing better. More than that, the bothersome Nord was _right:_ Ysolda was certainly interested in her, and though Sidra could scarcely believe it, she’d realized she felt similarly. She told herself how patently absurd it was to be spending time on this – chastised herself for fantasizing about something as banal as taking a pretty girl for a tussle when she had so much else demanding her attention. Not to put too fine a point on it, but she had a bloody world to save. And yet, she couldn’t seem to put the image of a certain sprightly, young redhead out of her mind. She was smitten and she couldn’t help it. And that meant that the two of them couldn’t continue to dance around each other forever. Sooner or later, the battle would have to be joined.

Sidra scoffed at her own choice of words. “Battle.” Hmph. When had she developed such a flair for the melodramatic? Probably around the time she realized she could murder ancient reptilian horrors with her voice.

And now here she was. She _and_ Ysolda, sitting across from each other at the Bannered Mare, separated only by the small table between them and the unwieldy pile of empty tankards, plates, and discarded silverware heaped atop it. An awkward silence hovered between the two of them, broken only by an occasional rattle or clink as one woman sipped from her flagon, or the other picked at a half-eaten plate of fried food. It was a clumsy, uncomfortable situation, yet, admittedly there was one saving grace amidst the whole tangled mess: at least Sidra wasn’t feeling immediately compelled to flee.

She took another long gulp of ale and scrutinized Ysolda over the lip of her mug. A part of her had expected Lydia’s plan to end in tears – most of Lydia’s plans did – and she was pleasantly surprised to find both that she enjoyed the other woman’s company and that she was _capable_ of enjoying the other woman’s company. After all the missteps and false starts, she’d thought that any chance they might have of getting along would be completely crushed.

As it was, Sidra found herself grinning sheepishly as the redhead polished off a skewer of roasted pork, and then languidly stretched out in her chair. Thankfully for Sidra’s beleaguered sanity, Ysolda’s choice of attire this evening – while still more exciting than her usual day-to-day wear – wasn’t quite as… audacious as it had been the last time they’d seen each other. “I have to admit,” the Nord woman began, “I’m kind of surprised that you wanted to have drinks together. After the other night...”

“Yes, I… I wanted to apologize for that. It… well...” Sidra trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

“It’s all right. I understand. You have a lot of very important things on your mind.”

“I do, but… but that’s not an excuse.” She set down her tankard and leaned forward, her expression earnest. “I know I’ve treated you badly, and I want to apologize.”

Ysolda acknowledged the sentiment with a warm smile. She reached out, found Sidra’s fingers and closed her own around them. She’d meant for the contact to be brief – just a quick squeeze – but before she could stop herself, she was caressing the knuckles, marveling at how the sword calluses along the edge of her palm made her hands seem strong and weathered, and yet somehow still feminine. “You’re here now,” she said, proud that she’d somehow managed to keep her voice from trembling too much. “I think I can forgive you.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you.”

“I’d just like you to answer one question for me.”

“… oh?”

“So, a few nights before… well, before the last time we were here, I swore I saw someone ducking through the brambles behind the temple...”

Sidra blanched and then began to squirm uncomfortably in her seat. “… oh.”

“Divines, that _was_ you, wasn’t it?” Ysolda said with a burgeoning smile. “I _thought_ I saw someone skulking around back there. I almost called the Guard, I thought it was a thief!”

“Um...”

She laughed. “What were you _doing_ back there?”

“Well… that...” Sidra made an attempt to clear her throat, but she couldn’t fully succeed in dislodging whatever it was that was impeding her ability to speak. “… that, um… is a little difficult to explain.”

“Were you running from _me?_”

“… I may have been.”

Ysolda laughed harder. “Mara preserve me, why?”

There was no way to explain this that didn’t sound absolutely ridiculous. But worse, Sidra had the distinct feeling that if she were to take the explanation she already had rolling around in her head and actually tried to voice it, it would just sound even more ludicrous. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that everyone’s been acting so… so _strangely_ since I put this amulet on. You included. And, well, I wasn’t sure how to handle all the sudden attention. Um, especially _your_ attention. Her cheeks reddened lavishly. “I mean, here was this young, beautiful woman just… just _flinging_ herself at me. And then there was all the flirting.” She tugged at her collar. “You… you know what you were doing. You were coming on so _strong-_”

Yes, indeed. It was official. She did sound like a lunatic.

And yet, while Ysolda had every opportunity to rake her over the coals, she didn’t. Instead she beamed – this smug and utterly self-assured little smile. “‘Beautiful?’ Is that so?”

Well, that tore it. She’d just stumbled into the trap she’d never seen coming. She had to hand it to her opponent. It was an elegantly designed conversational snare, that was for sure. Her cheeks felt uncomfortably warm, and she was certain she’d turned bright red all the way down to her toes. “Yes. ‘Beautiful.’”

“That’s so sweet of you. Thank you.”

That brilliant smile had Sidra’s stomach doing cartwheels. She wasn’t sure if she liked the sensation or hated it. Perhaps it was a little of both. “Um, anyway, if I’d known- well, let’s just say if I’d had even the slightest inkling that things would turn out… the way they’ve turned out...” She shrugged. “I supposed I might’ve been more inclined to let you just catch me.”

“I see.”

There it was again – a smile dazzling enough to move mountains. Who needed Dragon Shouts when one had a smile that sublime? “Yes, well… glad we’ve gotten everything cleared up.”

“Mmmmm, perhaps not quite everything. There is actually one more thing that I’m curious about.”

“Which is?”

“Well, clearly you’re no longer ignorant of what the amulet symbolizes. And it’s caused you no end of trouble. So… why are you still wearing it?”

“Oh, well, that’s easy. I just wanted… um… I wanted to make sure that you knew I was still interested. You know… in us. Seeing each other.”

“And that’s all there is to it? Somehow I don’t think you’re telling me everything.”

“It… might also be because the clasp is stuck.”

Ysolda nearly spit a stream of ale all over the table as she tried to stifle a sudden burst of giggles. “Oh, my dear Sidra, sometimes you are so hopeless, I can’t stand it.”


	8. Chapter 8

Far too many drinks and nowhere near enough food later, the two women were finally on that walk they’d once discussed taking.

It wasn’t a very _long_ walk – both of them were much too drunk to do anything more involved than staggering the short distance from the Bannered Mare to Sidra’s modest estate, Breezehome. In truth, it was less of a “walk” and more “two drunks hanging off each other while also trying to keep their hands out of some very intimate places.” It was unclear who’d been the first to start groping the other, but in the end, it was also largely irrelevant. Only a few people still had business walking the streets of Whiterun at so late an hour, but those that did were almost universally treated to the sight of two thoroughly inebriated women cavorting hand in hand through the streets, while simultaneously touching… squeezing… pinching… and other assorted actions that had no business being carried out in public.

Indeed, they were so preoccupied with each other that it took them several long minutes – punctuated only by the occasional groan (or moan) of some sort, and the odd belch – to realize that they’d arrived at their intended destination.

Sidra fumbled with her key. Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t know if that was due to the alcohol, or to being in such close proximity to the pretty, eager, and nubile little thing standing next to her and trying to get her hands down the front of her trousers. Whatever the case, though, she concluded she had little time for locks. And even less patience. So she shoved the key into the rickety lock cylinder as hard as she could, and was just lucky enough to avoid snapping the heavily rusted implement in half. Amazingly enough, despite a clear lack of finesse, the gambit worked, and she giggled with unrestrained glee as the door finally yielded to her efforts. She clamped a hand about Ysolda’s wrist and hauled the other woman with her through the egress, then shut the door firmly behind the both of them.

Inside, there was a fire slowly burning itself down in the hearth. What wood still remained was almost spent, but weak as the fire might have been, it still cast enough light to see by. Instinctively, Sidra made to go throw a fresh log or two into the fireplace, but stopped when she saw an unexpected sight out of the corner of her eye. She watched as a tall and slender silhouette lifted its shadowy arms up over its head. She gasped softly at the all too familiar sound of whispering cloth, and finally, she shuddered when she felt arms wrap around her from behind and pull her into a tight embrace.

The welfare of the dying fire now completely forgotten, Sidra turned and found herself eye to eye (perhaps chin to eye) with a nude Ysolda. And then, a moment later, she found herself being pressed back against the door to the outside. She let out a little squeak of delight as her eyes dipped down to the slim hand pressed firmly against her sternum. “So,” she said, her voice just slightly raspy. “I kinda want to kiss you now.”

“After all that’s happened – after all we’ve both been through – you had better want to do more than just ‘kiss’ me.”

She certainly had a valid point. But Sidra balked anyway. It was all just a little overwhelming, and she was having no end of trouble cudgeling her brain into fully comprehending what was right in front of her: the sight of this wonderful, gorgeous creature standing there – naked – in the firelight. Divines, she was _stunning._

“I’m being too forward again, aren’t I?”

“You’re _naked._ It doesn’t get much more ‘forward.’”

“I’m sorry.”

“Dibella’s Grace,” she said, with a wild, boisterous laugh. “Don’t _apologize._ It’s just… you look amazing, and… and I may just be having a little trouble believing we’re actually doing this.”

And now it was Ysolda’s turn to quail. “Do you _not_ want to do this?”

Sidra shot her a look. A long, hard look. And then, with far more gentleness than she thought she was capable of mustering at a time like this, she wrapped her hand around the back of the Nord woman’s head, her fingers tangling in that luxurious red hair, and pulled her down so their lips met.

Ysolda melted into her, leaning against her, pinning her against the door, arms circling her hips.

They stayed that way for several long, incredible moments, until Ysolda finally pulled back, a powerful shiver rolling its way down her spine. She giggled breathlessly. “Right. Stupid question...”


	9. Chapter 9

Sidra had certainly suffered her share of hangovers in her lifetime, but this time, the journey back to wakefulness seemed more arduous than it normally was. And even lying there, eyes closed in fear of the blinding sunlight she expected to find streaming into her window the instant she opened them, she could tell that something really was different this time.

And then her hand brushed against a patch of smooth, impossibly soft skin.

Oh.

Right.

Though her head was pounding and her stomach began sending warnings protesting its mistreatment, she couldn’t help but grin. Grin so hard and so wide, she felt her fool head might just come off.

There, lying peacefully next to her and only vaguely covered by a blanket was the lovely woman she’d spent the night with.

Sidra reached over, brushing her fingers against the nape of Ysolda’s neck, then slowly walking them down the creamy skin of her bare back. She snickered quietly to herself with astonishment and disbelief. This couldn’t be real. Something this marvelous – this heavenly – it just had to be some kind of dream. She continued her explorations, fondly squeezing a shoulder, then sliding down her side to her hip.

Apparently, Ysolda was a light sleeper. As those wandering fingers caressed her ribs and then the point of her hip, she took in a sudden, deep breath and stirred, rolling over onto her side and opening her eyes to see the Imperial grinning sheepishly at her.

Fancy that, Sidra thought as the Nord returned her smile, not a dream after all.

“Mmmmm… morning.”

“Hi, there.” Sidra reached out and gently caressed the redhead’s cheek. “How’d you sleep?”

“Oh, I always sleep better when I have company. Especially this kind of company.” She winked.

Sidra laughed and leaned forward to give her a quick kiss on the lips. “You don’t have to flatter me, you know. You’ve already succeeded in bedding me.”

Ysolda chuckled, but it quickly turned into a wince, and then, finally, a mildly rueful grin. “My head is killing me.”

“Mine, too. But I can fix that. Old Legion remedy, passed down through the ranks for countless generations. And if you like, I can even make us breakfast to go with it.”

“Hmmm. Interesting thought. Tempting.” She wiggled her hips, coaxing the Imperial to slip an arm around her waist and pull her in even tighter. “But that would require you getting out of this bed. And I’m rather enjoying you being in it.”

“You’re enjoying it _now._ But trust me, any minute, Lydia will come stomping up these stairs and start pounding on that door, prepared to deliver some form of scathing commentary about the foolishness you and I got up to last night.”

“Let her. She can’t ruin my good mood. I had a wonderful time.”

Sidra tried not to look smug. Honestly, she did. She just… failed rather spectacularly at it. “My memory of the evening’s admittedly a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you had _numerous_ wonderful times.”

Ysolda laughed brightly. “You’re not wrong.”

Sidra kicked her legs out of bed and made to sit up. About midway through the motion, she abruptly realized that she was being stared at. Intently. Her cheeks colored, but she made no moves to cover herself back up. Instead, she stood up fully, turned to the window and _stretched._ She raised her arms over her head, arched her back, then bent at the waist so she could briefly touch her toes. And, while it may have been just a touch indulgent – she relished every moment of that captive gaze lingering over her. “So,” she said, finally turning back to the woman still lounging naked in her bed. “About that hangover cure?”

“Mmm, yes, please. And I think I’ll take you up on that offer of breakfast, too.”

“Excellent.” A soft titter stopped her just as she was about to reach for the doorknob.

“Um… you might want some trousers before you go out there.”

Sidra tried to disguise her forgetfulness with bravado. “Nonsense. There’s no one here but us. I know what I just said about Lydia kicking down the door, but truth is, she probably found someone… amenable… to spend the evening with. Knowing her, she’s not likely to be back until this afternoon at the earliest.”

She threw open the door.

And nearly swallowed her tongue.

“Actually, I went to bed early last night. And figured I’d get up early this morning to visit the smithy.” There, in Lydia’s outstretched hand, were Sidra’s trousers. “You left these hanging off the front doorknob.”

Sidra let out a dejected groan. “Arkay, take me now.”


End file.
